The Five Feathers
by J.A. Lupin
Summary: A heartbreaking look at the thoughts of the Elves - from Legolas to King Thranduil to Galadriel - throughout the course of the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and beyond.
1. Whispers of the Trees

**Title**: Five Feathers

**Summary**: My attempt to tell the story of Legolas. A bittersweet fic told through the eyes of Laire, the lover he left behind, Galadriel, his father King Thranduil, Elrond, and himself. Takes place before the forming of the Fellowship, during the quest, and Legolas's return to Mirkwood. 

**Rating**: PG-13 for brief violence, and mild sensuality (Oooh! :D)

**Author's note**: So you've decided to read my fic, eh? Brave soul. I hope you're not disappointed. I've always found Legolas to be the most intriguing member of the Fellowship, with his untold history. I hope the first-person, present-tense point of view doesn't bother you. I think it adds to the story and gives it its urgency, but if you disagree, please let me know! I'm always open to criticism. Also, I'm no Tolkienite, so if you find any kind of canonical error, PLEASE let me know. I want to be as accurate as possible. Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy, and review!

**Disclaimer**: Legolas, Galadriel, Elrond, King Thranduil, etc. belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. Laire belongs to me.

Chapter One

Laire, before the forming of the Fellowship

The sun sets over Mirkwood. Light slants across the ground, filtered by the trees. Trees that shelter me, protect me. I can hear their urgent whispers. They speak of a time of darkness that is descending upon us. I can feel it on my skin, taste it in the air, and see it in everything around me. But I cannot accept it. Change comes swiftly to take away what I have known. 

_For the Dark Lord Sauron is coming back_, the trees tell me. _He will destroy your home and kill or enslave your friends. He will torture your father, your mother, and your family. He will burn your forest to the ground. He will kill your Legolas. So why do you not cower in fear?_

I do not know. I do not pretend to know. I simply place my faith in Legolas. He will find a way. He will help us survive the dark times ahead. He and whoever must join him. 

I know the myth of the fall of the Dark Lord. My father was there. He fought in the Great Wars, alongside Elrond of Rivendell. When I was young, my father loved to tell stories of the war, and of the One Ring that had the power to enslave the world. Then, I was deathly afraid that someone would find this ring. Now it has been found, yet I am not afraid. Perhaps it is because I feel safe deep in the heart of this forest. Am I losing my mind? Perhaps. Most are terrified to think that the One Ring of Power is in the hands of a hobbit. But I once met a hobbit in my travels, a Took, and was surprised to find that they are not only stout of heart but strong in their will to keep the world safe as well. I believe that he may succeed, with the help of Gandalf.

I suppose you are wondering who I am. I am Laire, youngest daughter of Ondollo, a merchant of Mirkwood. I have lived all of my life, all 1427 years, in the heart of Mirkwood. This is my home, and though most of the time I loathe it, I will not let it be taken my Sauron's armies. I will defend it until my death, as I will defend Legolas.

The birds call me. They are telling me to return home. I stand up and leave the grove quickly, thanking the gods silently that I chose to wear my breeches today. The birds' voices are shrill and urgent, and there is no way I'd ever be able to get home in time if I had worn one of my dresses. Dresses are pointless anyway; what's the point? All they do is hold you back, I say. But that's not important. What's important is getting home.

I run through the forest, and the branches and vines move out of my way. I whisper to them to be silent. No one must know that I was alone. My father would kill me. 

 I arrive at the steps of my home and pound on the door. I am not panting or sweating, but my knees are dirty from where I knelt in the grass. I do not think that Father will chastise me, but nevertheless, I try to brush away the dirt, to no avail.

Father opens the door and pulls me into his arms. I am shocked. Something terrible must have happened. Father is not usually affectionate with me. He is usually yelling at me for being too feisty and talking back to him, or for sneaking away with Legolas in the middle of the night. ("The Prince of Mirkwood! Honestly, Laire!")

"My daughter, I have been searching for you. Where did you go?"

I try to speak but cannot. My mouth is full of the velvet of my father's shirt. He lets me go and I make a face. Velvet tastes terrible.

"I was in the forest, Father. The birds called me. They told me something is amiss. What has happened?"

"Alas, my daughter, the creature called Gollum has escaped! The Prince sent word saying that he was coming back here before leaving again for Rivendell. The Council of Elrond is to decide our course of action, as soon as the Ringbearer and his company arrive at Rivendell. These are not good tidings. We have reason to believe that Gollum has told the armies of Sauron of the Ringbearer and his companions."

I put my hand over my mouth, then lower it slowly to speak. My words are foolish, but I cannot stop them from rolling off my tongue. "Why must Legolas go to Rivendell?"

"He is the messenger for the King. As you know, he was one of those protecting Gollum. He knows first-hand what happened." Father notices the look on my face. "Come inside. I will make you something hot to drink. Do not let this trouble you. King Thranduil will find a way to solve this problem." 

I look into my father's eyes and shake my head. Then I turn around and run, straight to the palace. An elven-guard stops me. His fair face is stern and sad. 

"What business have you here?" He asks me in Elvish.

"I need to see the King," I respond quietly. He shows no sign of letting me pass. "I have matters to discuss with him. On the journey to Rivendell," I finally add. The guard sighs and lets me pass.

I run into the great hall. My feet are sure and silent on the dark marble floors. I have been this way many times. The King is a great friend of mine.

I arrive at the throne room. King Thranduil is pacing at the foot of the stairs, one hand on his head. I wait silently for a moment, not wanting to disturb him. He notices me.

"Ah, Laire, my dear, what brings you here? Have you heard the news, then?" His voice is so grave and sad that I want to cry. I have not cried for almost five hundred years.

"Yes," I say. My voice cracks. I swallow and try again. My voice is clearer this time. "I wish to follow Legolas to Rivendell. I realize that I am not royalty or even nobility, but I must be with Legolas. I simply _must_, Your Highness. And I am not leaving this throne room until you give me permission." 

The King laughs, a laugh empty of mirth, and walks over to me. He takes my chin in his hand and tilts my face so that he is looking at me right in the eyes. I gaze back defiantly, squaring my jaw.

"Little Laire," he says softly, "you have a stout heart, but I do not believe that this quest is right for you."

I pull away, angry. "I know you do not believe me, Your Highness, but I swear on my brother's grave that _I_ _will not fail you_."

He shakes his head and turns his back to me. "Go home, Laire. Legolas must do this alone."

Angry tears stream down my cheeks. "So I shall just sit at home and wonder constantly how he fares, whether he lives or dies? I cannot do that, Your Highness. With all due respect, I do believe you're wrong. This quest is right for me. How can I prove this to you?"

He spins around. Now he is angry. His eyes flash. The King is not used to having anyone defy him. "You cannot even shoot an arrow or swing a sword! You are a common maiden. You are not meant to fight in wars. I do not care if you love my son. You are not following him to Rivendell."

I wipe away the next tears that stream down my cheeks. "What if I only follow him to Rivendell, and no further? I will sit silently at the council. I will simply listen. I will not speak and disgrace your name."

"And when Legolas agrees to carry the ring to Mordor? What will you do then? Nothing? I know you, Laire. You will follow him to your death. I cannot allow that. Now, go!"

I try to argue more, but my mind tells me not to. I turn and run away, down the corridors. I collide with someone and fall on my backside. I look up and see Legolas's grave dark eyes staring into my own pale green ones.

"Why such a rush, love?" he asks, helping me up. 

I wipe away my remaining tears and smile. The motion hurts my face. "I was simply speaking to your father," I say, trying my best to seem untroubled. He sees right through me.

"I was about to do the same, but now I reconsider. Tell me, what is amiss?" 

"Nothing," I tell him. The look on his face makes me start again. "Everything, then. First Gollum escapes, then you are to be sent to Rivendell! I asked the King to let me follow you, but he would not listen."

Legolas laughs. Oh, how I missed that laugh. I have not seen him for so long. How can I let him go again?

"You know very well that under no circumstances could you follow me. We are not even supposed to be lovers. You are betrothed to another." He looks up at the sun, which is obscured by clouds, and squints. "I am to help carry the ring to Mordor. Under no circumstances could we ever be together."

"It's a small wonder that Nárello even bothers to remain engaged to me. Everyone knows I'm not faithful to him," I say gloomily.

"Some are more faithful than others, Laire," he tells me with a grin. I smile sadly back. He kisses me quickly on my forehead and then runs down to see his father.

I watch him leave. More tears stream down my face. _Come back, my prince, come back…do not go to Mordor…_

My heart breaks so loudly that I swear I hear it echo through the halls.


	2. The Thoughts of a King

Chapter Two  
  
King Thranduil, before the Quest  
  
I can hear voices from down the hall: Laire's and Legolas's. Sometimes I wonder why they still bother with each other. They both know that nothing can end well for each other. I pity Nárello for even trying to reach Laire. Her heart belongs to Legolas, even if her hand belongs to him. I would try to keep them apart, but that is beyond even my power. I would ask her father to break off the betrothal, but that is not my business. I should stop thinking about this. I should do what her father did and find someone else for Legolas to marry.  
  
But other matters press. Legolas runs down the hall. I am quite sure that he comes to argue with me about Rivendell. But no, he surprises me.  
  
"Father!" I walk down the stairs and embrace my son.  
  
"My boy." I notice that he is grinning. "So you are happy about your responsibility, then?" I drape an arm over his shoulder and together we walk down the hall. My eyes wander from his face to my palace walls, walls that I am sure will not stand after Sauron's armies attack. They are covered with tapestries. Some illustrate great battles of Elves and Men, some that I have seen, some that I have not. Some show dragons talking with Elves, deep in their lairs. I leave it up to my son to protect these now.  
  
"I'm honored that you believe I can do this. Because I can, father. And I will. But…"  
  
I turn to face him, letting my arm drop. He avoids my eyes.  
  
"What is it?" My voice comes out harsher than I intended. I do not want him to reconsider. He needs to do this. He cannot stay in Mirkwood for the rest of his life. It is about time that one from our line earns some glory.  
  
"I am worried about Laire." I frown and begin to walk down the hall, away from him.  
  
"Forget about her, Legolas. She is not yours and never will be. She belongs to Nárello. He will make sure that no harm comes to her. You must also do your best to make sure that no harm ever reaches Mirkwood. He should not have a reason to protect her."  
  
Legolas steps forward, one long stride, and looks me right in the eyes. He is the same height as me. His eyes are the same color as mine. But his hair is lighter, and most of his face belongs to his mother. I had forgotten how much I miss her when I look at him. I refuse to let myself soften. I am King. I must do what is best for my people.  
  
"Go, Legolas, now, and forget Laire forever. She is not your concern. Our people are your concerns. Your kingdom is your concern."  
  
Legolas opens his mouth to argue, but the look on my face stops him. He turns to leave. I watch him go. I feel nothing, I tell myself. I am King. It is my duty to do what is best for my son and my people.  
  
But the question still echoes in my head: Is it for the best…?  
  
And the answer is always the same: No…  
  
I turn and walk back down the hall. 


	3. The First Battle of Mirkwood

Chapter Three  
  
Legolas, before the Fellowship  
  
I run out of the palace. Anger bubbles up within me, but I force it back down. Why doesn't my father try to interfere? He could break off the betrothal if he wanted to. But no, he insists that it is "all for the best." How can it be so?  
  
When I am King, I will get rid of whatever law says people cannot marry whomever they want. But I am not King yet. First I must go to Rivendell, and then I must survive whatever quest they send me on, whether it is simply for me to come back with news, for me to carry the ring to Mordor, or for me to accompany the Ringbearer. I do not know, and I will not know until the morrow. So I push the thoughts out of my mind.  
  
Laire is not outside. I expected her to wait, but now I realize I should have known better. When having a mental breakdown, what does Laire do? She sits in a tree. I wander out of the square and the village and into the place where the trees grow thicker and higher. Most of them are willows, sad and beautiful. But there is one tree that is tall and proud—the one Laire always runs to. I hum to myself as I walk toward it.  
  
The branches of the willows reach toward me, and, as they realize who I am, turn away sadly to talk amongst themselves. The branches look like long, slender fingers reaching up out of the fog. I shiver, even though the day is warm. The willows on the edges of Mirkwood have strange ways.  
  
I hear something ahead of me: Laire's voice. She laughs. Her laugh floats on the wind, wrapping around me like the fog. I wonder whom she talks to. I feel a twinge of envy. I sprint towards the tree.  
  
My heart slows down. I could laugh. Laire sits in the tree, cradled by its largest branches talking to…a butterfly. Its brilliant hues are like a splash of heaven against the monochromatic hell that is Mirkwood. Mirkwood is gray and dreary, constantly consumed by fog. I remember when it was the fairest land of all, but now those days are long forgotten. The butterfly reminds me of those days, of the flowers and the birds. I stand, silent as possible, and listen to Laire.  
  
"Could you imagine me, a warrior, swinging a sword and fighting in grand battles? I don't suppose you could, could you? Well, that's fine and just, for I'm afraid you might die of your laughter if you could! Common old Laire, a war hero!"  
  
I cannot resist. I interrupt. "I think you would make a fine hero."  
  
She jerks around and sees me, startled. The butterfly takes flight. My splash of color disappears. The air of happiness around Laire fades. Her hands grope at the air, but the butterfly is gone. She fixes her eyes on me, sea-green eyes that I love.  
  
"Me? A hero? You know perfectly well that it wouldn't suit me," she replies gloomily. "That title is more befitting to you. I'd rather stand beside you and chop off the head of any orc that comes too close while you shoot at them."  
  
I reach for a branch and begin to climb. I am a good climber, but still I marvel at Laire's feat. The branch she sits on is at least five times her height off the ground.  
  
I reach her branch and swing one leg over it. She leans forward and then settles back so that she rests against my chest. She sighs and plays with her elven brooch, the small silver and green leaf that ever elf has—the sign of our immortality. Then she shifts so she's looking me in the eyes.  
  
"What did your father say?"  
  
I shrug absently. "Not much. I told him I was worried about you, and he told me not to be."  
  
"You shouldn't be," she murmurs, turning away and focusing on the brooch again. "Are you afraid, Legolas?" She asks after a time.  
  
"To death," I mutter.  
  
She looks at me again. This time her eyes are angry and flashing. "Don't joke about such matters, Legolas. You don't know death. You don't know how bad it is."  
  
"Neither do you," I reply. Her cheeks flush. She opens her mouth to argue, but I place a finger on it and she gives up. She turns away again and rests her head on my shoulder, then takes my hand in hers and holds it on her heart.  
  
"I love you, Legolas," she whispers, and kisses my hand. I tighten my grip around her waist.  
  
"Well and truly?" I ask, not thinking.  
  
She laughs. Her laugh is like the sweetest music my tired ears have ever heard. I stiffen at the thought that this may be the last time I ever hear that laugh.  
  
"Well and truly," she answers.  
  
"I love you as well," I whisper. She sighs and closes her eyes. I lean my head against the trunk of the tree and look up at the gray sky. Only tiny slivers are visible through the tangled braches of the tree. I could sit like this forever, listening to nothing but the whispers of the trees and the sound of Laire's breathing. I can barely hear it; if my hearing were not so keen I would not think she was breathing at all.  
  
Something startles me out of the pure and simple bliss I'd fallen into. Someone is walking around. Not elves, for the feet of these strangers are heavy. I hold Laire closer and she digs her fingernails into my arm in fear. The air suddenly fouls, and I hear a low growling noise.  
  
"Orcs," Laire hisses. I move away and, as quickly as lightning, fit an arrow in my bow. It sings and whistles as I release it. A faint, anguished growl rises up from the place where the arrow disappeared. Laire's brow furrows and then she gasps. I turn my head and follow her gaze. An army of orcs emerges from the sanctuary of the willows. Their clubs are raised and the carry swords longer than my body. Their rotting teeth are exposed as they scream and growl. Arrow after arrow flies from my bow, each of them hitting their target. More anguished cries follow. Orcs sink to the ground, pieces of wood embedded in their black flesh. Laire's face reddens with hate. Armies of Sauron are invading our home.  
  
I do my best to fend off the orcs, but more and more waves of them keep coming, even as their comrades are slaughtered relentlessly. Finally all my arrows are spent. I do not know what to do. An orc climbs the tree. Laire hurls a thick branch. The orc falls onto the ground with a loud howl, the branch now imbedded in its forehead. I clasp Laire's hand so tightly that my fingers begin to lose feeling. All hope seems lost. The orcs swarm around the trunk like bees to honey.  
  
And then, one by one, they drop. I turn my head to see the elven armies charging. Their arrows sink into the orcs as mine did, but theirs fly in great swarms. Any orc that gets too close is chopped down with a long, graceful elven sword.  
  
We watch in horror and awe as the orcs are defeated without a single death on the elf side. My first battle is one of triumph, of victory. But I will taste defeat soon enough. I can feel it.  
  
The elves, my friends, step over the still-moaning bodies of the orcs, shoving corpses aside and cutting down the monsters that reach up.  
  
Nárello is first to the base of the tree. Laire slides down first. I watch in anger as Nárello embraces her and swings her around.  
  
"You're safe, my love!" He kisses her on the cheek and she laughs, but the laughter is not genuine. I hop down after her and am swiftly embraced by my father, yet my eyes remain on Laire.  
  
"What did you think of your first battle, my son? Surely it won't be your last!" He slaps me on the back. I nod, unsmiling, as he beams and surveys the damage. My last glimpse of Laire before she disappears is of her glancing over her shoulder as she is led away by Nárello, a single tear running down her dirt-smudged cheek. She smiles at me sadly and then she is gone. 


	4. Willows

Chapter Four  
Laire  
  
I am not listening as Nárello carries on excitedly about how many orcs he killed and whatnot. The look on Legolas's face as Nárello picked me is one burned into my mind forever. I want to disentangle myself from the eager arms of Nárello and run to Legolas and tell him that it will be all right, for I will wait for him here. When he returns, we will leave Mirkwood together. Than I think of something else: If he returns. What if he never does? Will I be doomed to wander forever without him, bound to Nárello? The though is more than I can bear. I tilt my head to the sky and blink back burning tears.  
  
"What is wrong, Laire?" Nárello's voice makes me jump. I turn my head to him and hastily wipe away the tears.  
  
"Nothing," I reply hurriedly. I smile weakly at him. His brown eyes are filled with concern, but, strangely, I do not care if he dies of worry. I do not wish him to, but if he wants to, fine.  
  
"Come now, tell me. Is it about the orcs? They're wretched monsters, Laire. Forget about them. They deserve to die."  
  
"No, it's not about the orcs, Nárello! It's about nothing. Nothing's wrong. I am perfectly fine," I insist. He shrugs and continues to babble on and on.  
  
I let my attention wander freely. My eyes roam to the skies, which are as gray as the haze on the ground. Dark clouds drift lazily around. The air is musty and damp. I find myself missing the butterfly. My longing for color in this world is matched only by my longing to be with Legolas. How my father has managed to live here for five thousand years I cannot fathom. The lack of color is suffocating.  
  
We have ambled into the village again. I am vaguely aware of cheering and singing. The elves celebrate our first victory. They have all won. All of them but me.  
  
My battle is lost. Legolas leaves within the week. He leaves me here, with Nárello and my father and the other elves that I have come to despise on this day. I am a poor warrior in every sense. I wish to die.  
  
I hear someone call my name. The voice is hoarse, yet I would recognize it anywhere: Father's. I turn around and see him, thankful for an excuse to leave Nárello. I run to my father and embrace him.  
  
"My daughter," he whispers into my hair. "My little Laire. I was sure you were gone."  
  
I cry like a child and cling onto him, desperate. Then he tilts my chin and makes me look him full in the face. I stare back, defiant, into his blue eyes. I get my eye color from my mother, and my hair color as well. My hair is black; black as a raven's wing, so black it looks blue in the moonlight. Yet my skin is fairer than most elves'. I get that trait from my father. I miss my mother. I wish desperately to be with her in Rivendell, where she fled after my brother's death. She told me she couldn't stand to live in the forest where her son died any longer. My father is afraid that if I leave for Rivendell, I will stay with her and not come back. I am his only daughter left. And yet he wants to marry me off! I cannot comprehend his motives. I do not begin to try.  
  
Then a smile forms on his face. I raise my eyebrows, apprehensive.  
  
"What is it?" I ask.  
  
"I have good news, Laire," he says slyly.  
  
My heart leaps. The wedding is off! I could dance. I could sing.  
  
"The wedding--" he begins.  
  
Oh, it is true! I laugh and embrace him.  
  
"Oh, it's off, you called it off, didn't you, Father?" I ask gleefully. My Father stiffens and steps back.  
  
"No," he says. "I did not. I...actually, I moved the date. It shall take place on the morrow, before sunset." He stops at the look of pure and utter horror on my face. "I thought you would be pleased. Now all of Mirkwood can attend."  
  
I fight down the bitter cry of anguish rising in my throat. I try to speak but all that comes out is a short, quiet wail. I try again. "How...how could you, Father? I do not want all of Mirkwood there! I do not want anyone there, least of all Legolas! He will--"  
  
"He's not coming," he says angrily. "I made him promise not to."  
  
I turn away, one hand clamped over my mouth. I turn to run but my Father grabs my wrist and holds me. I turn around, tears streaming silently down my face yet again.  
  
"Let me go!" I scream, suddenly aware of all the bright elvish eyes upon my face. I jerk my arm out of my father's grasp and stand still for a moment, shaking in my anger.  
  
"How can you do this to me, Father? You won't let me leave Mirkwood, even though I'm dying here, just dying! You insist on betrothing me to someone I don't even love, and ignore the one that I do love! You won't let me fight like I wish to. You won't let me live, Father. And yet you insist it's all for the best! How can it be? How...can...it...be?" I spit out the last four words. I barely hear the murmurs of the crowd. My father stands shocked, unable to say anything. I shake my head wordlessly at him, still silently sobbing, then turn and push through the crowd. I run straight back towards my tree, perfectly aware of the danger and perfectly unconcerned. Nárello catches me and holds me for a moment, trying to console me. I shove him away, disgusted.  
  
"Leave me be," I growl at him. Then I turn and run again.  
  
Tears blur my vision, but my feet are sure. I am positive that my loud, racking sobs echo in the trees. Orcs could hear me. Let them come. I would rather die quickly of an arrow to the heart than slowly of grief here in Mirkwood. But I quiet myself. I force the sobs to stop. I wipe away the tears and force my breaths to come evenly again. Now I am angry with myself. I allow myself to become too emotional. Elves are not supposed to betray their feelings. What would Mother think? No, Mother would not think anything, for if she were here, she would never allow Father to arrange my marriage. She'd let me marry Legolas, because she is just and wise and she'd see the error in forcing two individuals as headstrong as Legolas and I to be apart. I wonder if she knows about the change in the wedding date. Now Mother won't be there. She'll never see me wed. But that is just as well, for I know she'd stand up and put a stop to all this nonsense. How I miss Mother.  
  
I consider walking to my tree, but remember the battle from earlier and reconsider. Instead I turn and walk east, where the leaves of the willow sweep the ground. The largest willow in the group calls to me, her slender branches reaching for me like tender hands. I brush the limbs aside and walk into the dim, warm shelter of the tree. She speaks to me in a low voice, beckoning me to come closer. I follow the call and sit at the base of her trunk, cradled by a large nook. My anger seems to disintegrate. I hum slowly to myself and think that I could never leave this spot. I will die if I go back. Die of grief, like Mother said she word. One more moment here, and she would die. So will I.  
  
The willow's branches caress my face. I sigh and begin to forget my worries, many of them though there are. Nature serves as an excellent comfort for me.  
  
But, suddenly, in the distance, I hear footsteps. Not clunky footsteps, so they are not orcs. They are soft. Elf footsteps. I groan softly and wish to just sink into the earth and just become one with the tree. I don't want them to find me. I close my eyes and silently will them away. They come anyway.  
  
The curtain of branches parts. I open one eye tentatively, afraid of what I will see. If it is Nárello, I'll knock him over the head with a branch and run as far as my legs will carry me. But it is not Nárello. It is Legolas. I open both eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. So does he.  
  
"Hello," he says quietly. I motion for him to sit down, so he comes and sits beside me. I move onto his lap and rest my head of his chest.  
  
"I was worried about you," he says, twirling one of my black curls around his finger. "You caused quite a stir back there."  
  
"I do not care," I announce stubbornly. He laughs, but only with mild amusement.  
  
"You do not care much about anything anymore, do you?"  
  
I look him straight in the eye. "I care about you. I care about your father. I care about my mother. I care about Middle-Earth. I care about many things, just not Mirkwood. No, I suppose I do care for it, and would mourn if it stood no more, but I'd prefer to care about it from a distance."  
  
"You said you were dying here. Did you speak the truth, or were you just being dramatic?"  
  
"I spoke the truth," I say, now looking away.  
  
"Why do you hate this place so?" He asks. His tone is surprised.  
  
"The air here, it just fills my lungs like smoke, until I cannot breathe and I feel dizzy, and slowly I begin to forget things...like my mother, and the times when Mirkwood was fair and lovely. And I cannot do what I want here. I'm always surrounded by others, yet I feel so alone, until I'm with you. When you're not with me, I feel like I'm standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one even glances my way...I feel so trapped. I need to be free. I need color," I finish, thinking of the butterfly. The fragile little butterfly, who can go wherever it wants, with no one to stop it. How I envy that butterfly.  
  
Legolas holds me close, running his fingers through my hair. I don't cry. My eyes are empty of tears. I simply cling onto him for dear life. We sit like that for a time, not speaking, just drinking each other in. I do not confess my fears, or my anger at my father. I love the peace.  
  
"Night comes swiftly, Laire," Legolas murmurs vaguely. I look up and blink.  
  
"Let it come. Let it stay. I would sit here like this in infinite darkness if I could. It shields me from that I hate and that I dread. Let it never pass," I say stubbornly.  
  
"Oh, Laire," he says sadly. I look into his eyes, eyes dark and glowing. I run a finger between those eyes, down his nose, and resting at his lips. He kisses my fingertip, then my whole hand, then brushes it away and kisses my forehead, my nose, and, finally, my lips.  
  
I close my eyes and surrender to the kiss. 


	5. The Dove

Chapter Five  
  
Legolas  
  
Insatiable. That's the first word that comes to my mind when I think of this moment. After that kiss, nothing can stop us. Laire clings to me like I would expect: like it is our last moment together. And it is. I do not care about anything else or anyone else anymore. Just her. My tongue tastes her, my skin feels her, my mind draws her. She is all that I have and all that I am.  
  
My hands run across her cheeks, down her throat, through her hair, across her back. She shivers and draws me closer. I undress her with trembling insistency, not caring who comes. Let the entire world watch. Nothing on earth can take her from me now.  
  
Her face is wet with tears. Something in me tells me to stay here forever, never leave her. Part of me almost selfishly thinks she will not survive without me. But she is strong. She will wait for me.  
  
I cradle her in my arms as she cries. The willows sing their mournful songs, the few birds left in Mirkwood adding feeble voices to the sorrowful chorus. There is no light anymore. No color. Just darkness. Darkness and love.  
  
And then, suddenly, a gust of wind blows the branches aside, and we sit there, cradled in shadows, watching the world outside as though we are separate from it. I blink to adjust my eyes to the darkness, and everything becomes clear. No one can see us, but we can see everything. Suddenly Laire gasps. I follow her gaze. Out of the fog rises something white, whiter than snow, whiter than anything I have ever seen before. I squint, tracing its shape with my eyes. It is a bird, lovely in its luminous brightness. Its flaps wings that draw every once of light from the air around it. Laire sighs and tightens her grip on my hand.  
  
"What is it, Legolas?" She whispers, her voice no louder than the sound of a leaf blowing in the wind.  
  
"I cannot be sure, but...I think it is a dove," I murmur, my voice no louder.  
  
Legend tells of the doves, heavenly creatures which were servants to the sun, spreading light in places fair and good. When Mirkwood became as it is now, the doves fled and were never seen in Middle-Earth again. Yet here one flies--it is a sign that the dark times will indeed come to pass? The dove stops flying and flutters to the ground, right where the branches of the willow part. And then, so suddenly I can barely comprehend it, the dove falls over, an arrow embedded in its side. Laire puts her hands over her face and stifles a cry. The branches fall together again, shielding the bird.  
  
Laire listens for a moment. Nothing moves. All is well. The arrow seems to have come from nowhere. Perhaps the elves are cleaning up the dead orcs, and accidentally shot one of their arrows? She decides that nothing is coming, so she moves out of my grasp and crawls forward, catlike. She picks up the wounded creature.  
  
It is merely stunned, not dead. Its liquid black eyes stare up at her, dark as her hair, sad as her face. It coos. She coos back, and removes the arrow with nimble fingers. It has not sunk deep. She murmurs, softly, "Whatever grace has been given to me, I pass unto you." The bird stirs, and flaps its wings and flies away, but not before leaving a gift for Laire. Five feathers, so bright they cast a subtle glow on Laire's face. She turns her head to me and smiles.  
  
"Five feathers." With her long fingers, she picks one up and twirls it around. "One for love." Then the next. "Courage." The next. "Honor." The next. "Hope." And the last. "Wisdom."  
  
Then she crawls back over to me, and takes a thread from her dress. She ties the feathers together and takes my hand. She places the feathers in my palm and curls my fingers around them.  
  
"For you, so that you remember the purpose of your quest and those virtues you have always kept so perfectly. Keep them close to your heart, Legolas, and you won't go astray." Then she pushes my hand to my heart. I nod solemnly and then lean in to kiss her again.  
  
Our last kiss. 


	6. Song of Freedom

Chapter Six

Laire

            "Give me your cloak." I am barely aware of my mouth moving as the words spill out. Legolas pulls away, taking his lips away from my neck. My fingers involuntarily run to that spot, rubbing it tenderly. He gives me a strange look.

            "Why do you need it?" He asks cautiously, as though he dreads the answer. 

            "I'm leaving," I say, standing up and brushing dirt off my breeches. I pause at the look on his face. "I have to, Legolas. I cannot live here any longer." I grab the cloak off the ground, picking willow leaves off of the tightly woven fabric. Legolas aches to protest, it is evident in his eyes, but he sees my determination and puts his head in his hands. 

            "Do you need any help?" He mutters despondently.

            "Yes," I say, brushing off the last leaves and swinging the earthy-toned cloak over my shoulders. "I'm sneaking back into the square and taking Úmátimon with me. I need you to get everyone away from the stables. Can you do that for me? Please?"

            My eyes beg him. His fill with unshed tears and he frowns, torn between frustration and sadness and love. 

            "Fine," he says resentfully, not meeting my eyes. He stands up and starts to walk away, but I grab him by the arm.

            "Listen to me, Legolas," I say. "I am going to Rivendell. I know the way. Úmátimon is strong and swift, and she will get me there safely." I make him look me in the eyes. "No matter what, I will always find you. When everything is over, I swear on the heavens and the earth that we will be together again. Promise me that you will find me. Promise me," I plead.

            Legolas runs a finger across my cheekbone, gazing vaguely at me, as though he is not seeing me as I am now, but as I once used to be: carefree and happy. Maybe someday I will be that way again. 

            "I promise," he whispers, and kisses me hard on the mouth. I let myself linger for a moment before tearing through the trees. 

"Dar sí ah enni1," he sighs, just before I disappear. 

"I'm sorry, Legolas," I tell the air, hoping the willows will carry my message. "I must go."

            I make myself silent. I barely breathe. My feet seem to float above the ground, and the willow branches move out of my way. I draw the hood of my elven-cloak over my face, letting it cast my entire face into shadow. The colors of the cloak hide me, and if you did not look close enough, you would not see me or hear me at all. The soft, musical voices of elves meet my ears. I can hear my name, spoken with a bit of a scoff. I roll my eyes in disgust. 

            I move quickly through the underbrush, cradled and hidden by shadows. The eerie light of early morning distorts the shadows that are draped across the ground, creating shapes that seem to have stepped straight out of nightmares. All of Mirkwood seems to be a nightmare, with the thick blanket of slowly drifting fog, the twisted branches reaching out like hands frozen in motion, and the deep black marshes that border the eastern side of the forest. It is some sort of cruel irony that elves, fairest of all creatures, chose to dwell here. My heart yearns for the days when we are through with living in Middle-Earth. Soon we will dwell in Valinor, the undying land of the elves. All will be well. Until then, though, I must concentrate on getting to Rivendell.

            The stables are in view. I can see Úmátimon from here. Her wild brown eyes meet mine and I smile, putting a finger to my lips. She nods as though she understands but stomps impatiently anyway. I sigh gustily.

            Legolas's voice, loud and urgent, drifts through the trees.

            "I cannot find her!" He says. "There were arrows…and blood…I fear…I fear…"

            "You fear what?" Someone's voice comes after his, high and cold. I do not listen to the rest. I slip into the stables and unhook Úmátimon. I swing my bag, which I had filled with everything I needed a long while ago in hopes that this day would come, over my shoulder and silently urge Úmátimon on. She tosses her white head and trots silently through the forest.

            "Noro lim, Úmátimon , noro lim! 2" I gasp. I can hear shouts. They know I am leaving. Any moment now, they will find me. All my dreams of freedom will disappear. I spur Úmátimon on, begging her to ride as fast as she can. The willows long hands reach out for my face and arms, threatening to tie me down. I wave my arms and force them away.  Nothing can stop me now. I am almost free. The wind is in my face, in my hair. The birds beckon, lending their sweet, sad voices to the angry Elvish shouts and the wails that I am sure belong to my father and Nárello. Together they weave and mix into a bittersweet song. The song of freedom.

  


* * *

1 _Dar sí ah enni- Stay here with me_

2 _Noro lim, Úmátimon, noro lim!- Ride faster, Úmátimon, ride faster! _


	7. Tunnel of Loneliness

Chapter Seven  
  
Laire  
  
Freedom isn't a song. It isn't something you can see, but by gods, you can feel it. It feels warm and cold at the same time, warm because you've left your pain behind you, and cold because you don't know what's ahead of you. And you can taste it, salty and sweet. It slips through your fingers one moment, until you tighten your grip. It laughs at you, because you took so long getting to it. It welcomes you, because you're finally here. Freedom is many things, but it isn't a song.  
  
Freedom is a voice. One quavering voice, cracking as it rises in desperation, that turns into a strong voice, proud and resonating. I wish I could add my own feeble voice to its song, but I don't have the breath. I can't believe I'm finally free. I'm out of the dragon's lair and onto the battlefield.  
  
But this time I'm alone, and that scares me. There are orcs everywhere. I can feel their foul eyes burning into my back, despite the fact that they cannot see me nor hear me. I can still hear them. I can still feel them; they have a dark, thick aura that covers the forest like a polluted blanket.  
  
The trees reach out their black, twisted fingers, brushing my face and tearing at my clothing. Within minutes, there are scratches all over my arms and cheeks. The wind howls past my ears, singing her eerie, sad songs. I close my eyes for a moment and let tears run down my face. The tears could be brought on by cold, or by loneliness, or even perhaps, though I loathe to say it, fear. I can't deny what I've so long thought I was invincible from. Now, without Legolas, or even my father, I am afraid.  
  
I am afraid of Sauron. I'm afraid of the Orcs. But most of all, I'm afraid of myself. I don't trust myself out here. I can't defend myself, I can't take care of myself. I close my eyes and let the horse trot silently into the tunnel of loneliness up ahead of me. 


	8. Legolas' Dream

Chapter Eight

Legolas

            They are watching me. Do they know that I am lying? I wouldn't be surprised if they do. But either way, I do not care. Laire is gone, probably forever. I know I told her I'd find her again, but what is a promise, really? Just a few empty words strung together with no real meaning. I will look for her after the quest, but I doubt I'll find her. In fact, I doubt she'll make it to Rivendell. She is brave and smart, but her skills with weapons are nonexistent. I curse her father for raising her the way he did.

            I sink to my knees and try to fight the rising sobs. I have never cried before in my life, not once. I tell myself to be strong. My hands cover my face and run through my hair almost involuntarily. I gulp the air, trying to steady my breath. And then I feel a strong hand on my shoulder. I twist around and look up into the face of my father. He knows.

            "My son…" He pulls me to my feet and embraces me. His voice is almost inaudible. His words are meant only for me. "It is all for the best. Someday you will see. She will wait for you when the quest is over."

            _Someday I will see? Someday I will see? I hope I never see things your way, Father. She is going to die, I am going to die, you are going to die. And yet you say it's 'all for the best.'_  The words play through my mind and dance on my tongue. But I have not the heart to speak them. Instead, I pull myself out of my father's embrace and trudge wearily back to the castle. 

            As I walk up the stairs, the guards don't seem to notice my presence. Their blue eyes stare solemnly ahead, and for once I notice how blank they are. The guards are so used to following orders, they probably haven't had a single original thought in a thousand years. I wonder if I am like that. A mindless servant. But no, I am going to Rivendell of my own will. I _want_ this quest. I want to save Middle-Earth.

            The route to my old room is a familiar one, although I haven't been to it since last year. The warm, clean halls of the palace are a relief after the endless grime of the prison where I used to guard Gollum. I push open the wooden door to my chambers and nearly throw myself into the soft bed, which creaks from disuse. The fabrics, made of the finest Elvish cloth, hug my form. I can't help but be comforted. It is good to be home, even if Laire is not with me.

            I stare at the ceiling for a while. It is domed, made of glass and precious medals, and the gray midday sunlight streams through. It used to be beautiful at night, before Mirkwood was clothed in fog and cloud. I miss the stars. The skies of Middle-Earth used to shine so brilliantly that on the clearest night, it seemed as though day had simply traded its garish yellows for blues and silvers. A truly awe-inspiring sight. 

            Nostalgia begins to take the place of fear, and as I fantasize about the time when Middle-Earth was almost free from the evil that threatens it now, sleep comes to claim me. I don't want to rest for fear that I will awake to find my world shattered, but my body aches almost as much as my heart does. I close my eyes. 

            Sleep comes instantly, crashing over me like a torrent of rain. And just like rain, sleep brings relief. Just before a dream takes me, I remember that I didn't even bother to take off my boots. I care not. Let the sheets get dirty.

* * *

Hot, bright sunlight is shining right into my eyes. I squint and raise a hand to block the light. Then I gaze up into the sky, and almost gasp.

It is a brilliant, deep blue. A single cloud drifts lazily by, but the usual blanket of gray is gone. I wonder if the sudden burst of sun has burned away the fog. I spring from the bed and dash down the stairs. My body feels light as a feather. 

When I finally reach the doors, I push them open and find myself in a world of blinding white light. The fog is gone. Mirkwood's colors shine as they once did thousands of years ago. A laugh rises in my throat, but I force it down. To break the peaceful morning silence would be almost blasphemy. 

And then the silence catches my attention. Has my hearing deserted me? Are my ears playing tricks on my mind? The complete lack of sound presses in on my ears, and I clamp my hands over them to drown out the steady roar that fills them. Not a tree branch rustles, not a bird sings its melancholy song, and not a single Elvish voice announces the return of the sun. 

I scream. The sound tears at my throat, and I feel my lungs empty themselves of air. But the silence remains. My heart races and I feel cold fear run down my spine. Frantically I run to the nearest house and pound on the door. There is no response, of course. So I raise my leg and kick the door down. The room that comes into view is empty. Not even a spider climbs the walls. 

My breath begins to come in ragged gasps. I race from that house to the next, afraid of what I might find. I kick the door down, and my heart sinks. It is, like the other, completely empty. And the next house as well. And the next. And the next. All of the dwellings are empty. 

I stand alone in the town square. An icy wind sweeps past my cheeks, and I can no longer feel the warmth of the sun on my face. I want to scream again, but my mouth won't move. I try to move my arms, and they are immobile as well. I cannot hear, I cannot move, and I am going cold. Is this death? _What is happening to me?_

And then I awaken.

* * *

            There is no sun in my room. All is gray. I tell my limbs to move, and they comply. I kick the wooden posts at the foot of my bed and delight in the noise that follows. I am still alive. It was but a dream. 

Shaking slightly, I rise from the bed and head down the stairs. I make my way slowly to the kitchens, inwardly rejoicing every time an Elf crosses my path and greets me. After the dream, it is a relief to be in the company of others. 

I find the palace kitchens easily and quickly. I slip inside, and Írime, the cook, greets me with open arms.

"Legolas!" She exclaims, embracing me. For an Elf, she is rather plump, and her pale hair is tied back in a messy bun. Her clothes are made of very fine Elvish cloth, but they are simply and brown. Streaks of flour discolor her tunic, face and hands. "Home at last," she sighs, stepping back. "Shame you can't stay longer."

I nod in agreement, and she smiles kindly. 

"Would you like something to eat?"

"Please," I answer, and she grabs a bowl and begins mixing. When she speaks again, her voice is grave and sad. 

"Everyone speaks of the coming of the Second Darkness. The orc attack yesterday seems to be a sign that they are correct. I pray dearly that Mirkwood won't fall to the hands of the enemy." She pauses to lean over and take my dirty hand in her flour-covered one. "I also pray that you are safe on your journey to the Council of Elrond. Are you afraid?"

"Yes," I respond so quickly that a sad smile crosses her lips. "But I am honored, and I want so badly to see Middle-Earth free again. I am sure of my skills, and I know that I can take the Ring to Mordor if I am chosen. I don't hope to be chosen – I am not that foolish – but if I am, I would…" I trail off and smile weakly at her. 

She takes her hand off mine and reaches out to lay it on my cheek. "My brave little Legolas," she whispers. "You are going to be a great warrior."

She smiles sadly and returns to her bread. I wait as she makes it, and let my thoughts wander. Laire is the first thing that comes to mind. My heart skips a beat and once again I fear for her safety. Will we meet again in Rivendell?

Will we _ever_ meet again? 


End file.
